Master of Murder
by Doctor Napalm
Summary: Molly tries to determine the cause of death when a Holmes family member dies. Sherlock and John are on the trail of a killer while Mycroft tries to discourage them from digging too deep. Could Mycroft somehow be involved?
1. A Death in The Family

Master of Murder

Chapter 1

A Death in the Family

Molly Hooper shivered just a bit. It was always cool here, but the morgue at St. Bart's could be downright cold at times. She rubbed her upper arms to get rid of the goose bumps and looked down at the papers on the desk in front of her. A stack of pre-printed forms all waiting for her to fill out in triplicate, sign and submit so they could be filed away and never looked at again. She breathed a faint sigh and picked up a ball point pen and started on the top form.

125633-37

**Name:** Jane (Parker) Flinders

**Age**: 67

**Status:** Married

**Hair:** Gray

**Eyes:** Blue

**Height:** 1.7 meters

**Weight:** 90.84 kg

**Cause of death**:

The cause of death line was uncompleted, waiting for her to fill it in. Molly looked up from the form. "_Cause of death_," she thought. Could she legitimately enter "Stupidity" on the line? Mrs. Flinders had climbed on top of her kitchen cabinet trying to replace a burned out ceiling lamp. Grasping the defective bulb, she shifted to get better footing. Her foot slipped into a sink full of dishes soaking in water. Two hundred forty volts of electricity shot down her arm, through her heart and continued through her body on its way to ground in the water. Molly shook her head and wrote "accidental electrocution" on the form. She filled in a few other minor details, placed her signature on the bottom line, and started a stack she called "completed forms" in the back of her mind.

She picked up the next form, Mr. John Mason. Before she could begin on it there was a knock on the door. "Yes?" she said. The door opened and a shaggy blonde head poked through. It was Billy, the new orderly.

"Got a fresh one for you, Miz Hooper," Billy said. "I just put it in the cooler, but they want you to check it out right away." Molly gave him a quizzical look and he shrugged his shoulders. "Relative of some big important government bloke," he explained, "that's all I know about it."

"Okay Billy," she said, "I'll get to it right away. Thank you."

"Yes'um," he said and closed the door.

Molly laid the form in her hand back on the pile. Mr. Mason would have to wait.

**- Ɵ -**

Molly pulled the thin cotton sheet back to reveal the body of an attractive young lady she estimated to be in her late twenties. Molly touched her arm. The lady had been dead for a while, she was room temperature, and rigor seemed to have passed. Honey blonde hair, vacant green eyes stared at the ceiling. The corpse appeared to be physically fit, very little fatty tissue except where it counted. For a moment Molly felt just a bit envious, the lady was rather well endowed. Closing her eyes, she thought "_be professional, Molly. That's not the right attitude, not right at all._"

Molly frowned slightly, picked up a clipboard that was hanging from the edge of the gurney, and looked at the preliminary information.

**Name:** Penelope Masters

**Age:** 27

**Status:** Single

**Hair:** Blonde

**Eyes:** Green

The rest of the form was blank except for one line further down the page where it said "Other comments." Someone had scrawled "Cousin of M. Holmes" on the line. M. Holmes? Billy said it was a relative of _a government bloke_. That had to be Mycroft! No wonder they wanted the body examined as soon as possible. Mycroft and Sherlock's genealogy was rather convoluted and both brothers were reluctant to discuss it. She didn't know there were cousins on the Holmes family tree, but it made sense. Just about everyone has cousins, some people more than others, but cousins are pretty standard issue for most folk.

**- Ɵ -**

"No, no, no," Sherlock Holmes commented, "you've got it all wrong."

John Watson stopped tapping on the keyboard and closed his eyes for a moment. "I thought we had an agreement about you not kibitzing while I write my blog," he said. "This is from my point of view, not yours. Unlike yourself, I'm not a mind reader. If I want to say that you were stumped, it's my prerogative. Whether you were actually stumped or not is beside the point. It appeared to me that you were momentarily at a loss for an explanation."

"Oh if only other people could think like me," Sherlock exclaimed, theatrically waving his hand in the air. He swiveled on one foot and walked to the window overlooking the street. "We are about to have a visitor with an urgent message, John. Please let them in."

John pushed back his chair and stood up as footsteps pounded on the stairs leading up to the flat. Moments later there came a loud knock on the door. Opening the door, John said "Please come in, Sargent."

Stepping into the flat, their visitor puffed a bit from the exertion of running up the steps. He steadied himself, placing one hand on the door frame and identified himself, "Sargent Pickering, Scotland Yard. I have," he paused to take a breath. "I have an urgent message for Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock continued looking out the window, apparently ignoring their visitor. "Someone is dead," he mumbled. Turning to face them, he repeated, "Someone is dead and Lestrade has sent you here to let me know about it. But he doesn't want my help in the matter. If he wanted my assistance he would have come in person. However there is some sort of personal involvement, so Lestrade has sent his representative to inform me. The urgency indicates suspicious circumstances."

The sargent stared at Sherlock, opened his mouth for a moment and then closed it. He turned and looked at John. "Takes some getting used to," John said. "Don't mind him, what is the message?"

"Oh, um, Inspector Lestrade, uh," Pickering said, fumbling inside his jacket with his right hand. He pulled out a folded paper and handed it to John. Looking at Sherlock, the sargent continued, "I regret to inform you that your cousin Penelope Masters has passed away."

"Second cousin," Sherlock corrected him. "Dear Penelope, a beautiful young girl; that is a shame. And what was the nature of her death?"

"That's what the paper is about," the sargent said, nodding towards John who was unfolding the document. "They don't know yet, she was found dead in her apartment this morning."

"Thank you, sargent," said John, "is there anything else?"

"Uh, no, that's all. The note there has some more details," he said.

Sherlock turned back to face the window. The sargent looked again at John who gave him a whimsical look and then looked back at Sherlock. "Well, I guess I must be going," Pickering said awkwardly and stepped back into the hallway.

"Thank you again, sargent," said John as he closed the door. "So who is this Penelope?" John asked.

"Family," said Sherlock, "second cousin. Very attractive blonde girl, striking emerald green eyes, worked for the government in some minor capacity, a secretary or something. I think my brother may have pulled in some favors to get her the job."

John looked at the paper in his hand. "It says here she was found in her apartment this morning, no sign of foul play."

"Very few physically fit twenty seven year old people just up and die for no reason, John. Whether there was foul play involved or not has yet to be determined, but my wager is that something out of the ordinary has occurred to precipitate her death. What that is has yet to be determined, but it will become obvious with an examination of the evidence."


	2. Into The Breach

Master of Murder

Chapter 2

Into the Breech

Molly Hooper took one last look at the face that once was Penelope Masters then pulled up the zipper on the black plastic body bag. She rolled the stainless steel shelf holding the body into a hole in the wall of the morgue and closed its door. Her mind was awhirl with thoughts about what would happen next. Obviously, of first importance, she needed to contact Lestrade to give him the results of her post mortem, Sherlock would want to know as well.

Removing her latex gloves, Molly dropped them in the red biohazard waste bin and then nudged a paddle shaped water faucet handle with her elbow. Warm water splashed into the sink as she lathered up and washed her hands and forearms thoroughly. Drying off with a paper towel, she nudged the faucet handle closed. She pulled off the disposable surgical mask and paper hat and dropped them in the bin along with the damp towel.

Returning to her desk, she sat down and picked up the telephone handset. Punching "5" on the speed dial made the phone beep a few times and then start to ring. Lestrade picked up on the third ring. "What's the verdict, Molly?" he asked without any introduction.

"The blood work isn't complete yet, but I can give you my preliminary exam results if you want them," Molly answered.

"Go ahead," Lestrade replied.

"The incident report from your office says she was found in the bath, so I checked for possible drowning. Her lungs are fine, no traces of water in them at all. There are no trauma sites on the body, no broken bones or cracked skull, so she didn't fall in the tub. I thought it might be an undiagnosed heart defect or something of that nature. Her ticker has some minor problems, it looks like she's been on a rather unhealthy diet for a while, but it was not bad enough to cause her death. Everything looks perfectly normal except that she's dead." Molly paused for a moment, collecting her thoughts. "There is one thing though. I did a very careful examination of the skin and found several small welts on the back of both arms that appear to be injection sites. I can't be sure until I get the blood work back, but I'll go out on a limb and say it may have been some sort of poison. It certainly looks suspicious anyway. I've asked our hematology technologist to do a complete check for toxins."

"Thank you, Molly," said Lestrade, "please let me know as soon as you get the blood results back."

"Any clues about who might have done this?"

"Nothing so far, we checked her apartment and didn't find a thing. There were no security cameras in the building, so at the moment we have no suspects. We'll be interviewing friends and coworkers over the next few days, hopefully something or someone suspicious will turn up."

Lestrade hung up without saying goodbye. Molly frowned and prepared her mind for her next phone call, one she really didn't want to make; a call to Sherlock Holmes.

—Ɵ—

Dr. John Watson sat in his comfy chair looking at Sherlock sprawled out on the couch. The detective had been there for hours, never speaking, obviously deep in thought.

Mycroft had called earlier. Sherlock refused to talk with him and handed the phone to John. "Don't let Sherlock get involved with Penelope's death, John," Mycroft had said. "Nothing good can come from it; there are personal issues here that will complicate things beyond measure."

John had relayed Mycroft's message to Sherlock and handed the phone back to him. Sherlock stuck it back in his pocket, gave no acknowledgement of the message and continued to brood on the couch.

Sherlock steepled his fingers, resting his thumbs on his chin. "Murder," he finally said. He sat up and swiveled around on the couch, placing his feet on the floor and vigorously grabbing the front edge of the cushions on either side of him. "Unquestionably, without a doubt, clear and unequivocally…murder."

"And you have deduced this how?" asked John.

Sherlock stood up and started to pace around the room. "In the first place, Penelope was…" Sherlock stopped his pacing as a peppy Irish-sounding banjo solo with a thumping drum in the background interrupted his expository. A frown flickered across his face as he reached in his pocket to retrieve his mobile. "Molly Hooper," he explained to John, flipping the phone open.

"Hello, Molly," Sherlock answered.

John watched as Sherlock intently listened to Molly go over the details of her post mortem just as she had with Lestrade. Sherlock's eyes shifted back and forth and he nodded his head slightly as he quietly processed each bit of information Molly offered.

Sherlock snapped the phone shut, ending the call. "We must check Penelope's apartment for clues, John," he said. "Lestrade's men say there's nothing there, but they couldn't find their arse with both hands. There is bound to be something there that will lead me to the killer. I just need to find it."

Sherlock finally smiled, "Once more into the breach, John. Let us go and see what we can find." Sherlock strode briskly to the door and opened it with a flourish, "are you coming or not?"

John stood to follow. "By the way, Sherlock,' he said, "your new ringtone for Molly...it was rather catchy but I didn't quite recognize the tune."

Sherlock smiled again, "Drunken Lullabies."

John's eyebrows furrowed as he wondered about Sherlock's choice of music. "Don't think I've ever heard of it," he said.

"Look it up, John. That's what the Internet is for." Sherlock chuckled lightly at his private joke as he stepped into the hallway.

—Ɵ—

Mycroft Holmes felt his Blackberry begin vibrating in his vest pocket. Annoyed at the distraction, he silently folded the newspaper he was reading and placed it on a table beside his chair. Retrieving the device, he glanced at the caller ID displayed on its screen. Anthea knew where he was, she would have texted him instead of calling voice if it were not urgent. He stood, being careful not to disturb the other members in the deathly quiet room, and made his way to the Strangers Room.

"Holmes," he answered.

"You were correct about your brother," Anthea said, "CCTV surveillance shows he is on the move with Doctor Watson in tow, most likely headed for Penelope's apartment."

"Well, that's going to bollox everything. I told the Doctor not to let him pursue this matter. My brother cannot be involved in this. When I heard about Penelope I knew immediately that he would be sticking his nose into it." He thought for a moment, and then continued. "All right, send a car to pick me up."

"Ah, dear brother, you do make life interesting," he said to himself as he placed the phone back in his vest pocket. "What a big surprise you are in for."


	3. The Trail Begins

Master of Murder

Chapter 3

The Trail Begins

Sherlock and John exited their cab on the corner of Bagley's Lane and New King's Road in front of a red three story brick building, just a few blocks west of the North Thames Gas Works. It was a warm day, the sun shone brightly on the concrete sidewalk producing a harsh glare. Sherlock shaded his eyes with his hand as he surveyed the general area, taking in minor details that might prove to be important later on. Numerous small shops occupied the area; a hairdresser, a dry cleaning/tailor shop, an electronics boutique and an Italian deli were across the street. More shops could be seen around the corner. Most of the buildings contained two or three floors, the upper levels consisted of mostly apartments. An occasional satellite dish sprouted from their walls. A CCTV traffic camera watched the box intersection but the viewing angle would probably not reveal much in the way of evidence. Eel Brook Common took up a large expanse of real estate on the other side of New King's, several people strolled through the park, a few folks on bicycles. A young mother pushed a blue and white pram. Traffic was moderate to light, mostly lorries trundling their cargo to God knows where.

The ground floor of the building in front of them had once contained a small café with a white painted façade sporting red checkerboard trim. A thick layer of dust on the window indicated it had been out of business for quite some time. Signs still advertised freshly ground coffee and a room for rent. A small sticker in the window corner warned that the premises were protected by ADT security. A bright blue door with a mail slot at the side of the building had a vacant hole where once a deadbolt had been installed. "So much for security," Sherlock mumbled.

Opening the blue door, the pair entered a narrow, dimly lit stairwell. The staircase had a steep degree of ascent. The ancient wallpaper was peeling and dirty from years of neglect. An iron pipe was fastened to the wall serving as a handrail. As they began to climb, the treads squeaked beneath their feet. "Not the best of quarters," commented John as he followed behind Sherlock.

The third floor landing was small with barely enough room for both men to stand comfortably. A single bulb hung from a cord in the ceiling, casting its light on the yellow plastic tape stuck to the doorframe. "_**CRIME SCENE**_," the tape proclaimed.

Sherlock turned his head left and right as if looking for someone watching him. "Please note that the tape does not say '_**Do Not Enter**_,' John," he said as he reached into his pocket. Pulling out a small leather case, he produced a pair of picks and inserted them into the lock. With a little jiggling the door popped open and he ducked under the tape to enter the apartment. John followed and closed the door behind him.

"Oh my, Penelope," Sherlock said wrinkling his nose in disgust and looking around. "What's that smell?" Dirty clothing littered the floor of the large single room apartment. Dishes were stacked, soaking in the sink, more were stacked on the counter and a small dining table. Empty boxes from microwavable meals, take away bags, and empty lager cans overflowed a trash can sitting by the table. A full cat litter box sat on the floor under a window, baking in the sun. "Ack! Cat shit, of course. Nasty creatures. Where are you?" Sherlock stooped over a bit and started crooning, "Here puss, puss, puss. Nice kitty. Come out, come out, where ever you are…"

"It doesn't look like Penelope was overly obsessed with cleaning," John remarked.

Sherlock gave up on finding the cat and resumed his survey of the room. A couch and chair occupied one side of the room, the arms of both were frayed and snagged from where a cat had obviously used them for scratching posts. Facing the couch were a small television and DVD player on a coffee table. A homemade bookshelf of bricks and wooden planks contained a few paperback novels and a large collection of DVD's. An unmade bed occupied another wall. A desk near the window, next to the cat box, held an older CRT style computer monitor, keyboard and mouse; their cables dangling loose. The computer was gone, possibly confiscated by the Scotland Yard crime scene unit for later forensic analysis.

Sherlock opened the fridge, it was nearly empty. Lager, cheap wine, various bottles of condiments, and a few dishes with moldy leftovers. "Chateau de la Stones Green," he said derisively.

John looked up from examining the items on the computer table, "As my uncle Paul always used to say, poor people have poor ways." He returned to looking at one particular cable, "What have we here?" he remarked.

"Find something?" Sherlock pulled his head out of the fridge and closed the door.

"Got something here that doesn't belong," John said as he held up the cable end for Sherlock to see.

"A keylogger, and so tiny!"

"Got something on the monitor too." John held up the other cable end. "They're so small the guys from The Yard must have missed them."

"Somebody was very interested in what my second cousin was doing," Sherlock mused. He pulled the small devices from the ends of the cables and placed them in his pocket. "Good work, John."

Sherlock began walking around the room, examining each item carefully. He opened each drawer in the kitchen area and poked around a bit, not finding anything of interest. He moved to a small dresser and opened the drawers. They contained mostly ladies undergarments and a massive facial massager. "No wonder she had such a smooth complexion," he quietly remarked as he put the device back where he had found it.

He crossed the room and stepped into the loo. The tub where Penelope passed away had been drained. No evidence of her demise remained. Opening the mirror cabinet above the wash basin, he examined the contents. A dozen different shades of lipstick, multiple eyeliners, various colors of blush, other cosmetic potions, a half-used card of birth control pills and a few feminine hygiene related items. He stared at the collection for a moment and then closed the cabinet. A book of matches lay on the counter. "Munster Jewellers and Pawnbrokers. Fine Watches, Collectors Jewellery, Diamonds," it proclaimed. "She may have been a lush, but she didn't smoke," he said as he flicked open the cover. Inside was written "3845" in pencil. Sherlock put the matchbook in his pocket with the dongles.

Stepping back into the main room, he resumed his search with the bookcase. He examined the title of each book and DVD carefully, then stepped back and raised his eyebrows. "What's wrong with this list, John?"

John was lying on the floor with his head under the bed. He slid himself backwards on the wooden floor and looked up at Sherlock.

"One of these things is not like the others, John. The Color Purple, Steel Magnolias, The Bridges of Madison County, Love Story, Rear Window, Breakfast at Tiffany's, Terms of Endearment, The Way We Were, Sleepless in Seattle, Funny Girl…" Sherlock paused. "There are a dozen more here, all of them are romantic drivel. Chick flicks. All but one, that is..."

Sherlock reached out and pulled a volume from the shelf. "Rear Window," he said, "classic Hitchcock. What is it doing here among all of this other fluff?" Sherlock snapped open the case and his eyes sparkled. "Ah, Penelope! Yes! Thank you! This is it, John. This is what we're looking for!"

John stood up and looked over Sherlock's shoulder. Inside the case was a CD. Written across its face in black marker were the words, "FOR SHERLOCK."

—Ɵ—

Molly frowned as she looked at her computer monitor. The results from the hematology lab indicated an elevated level of Phenergan, an over-the-counter antihistamine commonly used as a sleep aid and to relieve stress before surgical procedures. Penelope appeared to have ingested two or three times the recommended dose. Not enough to kill her, but she would have been very, very mellow. She hadn't drowned, even though the sedative would have made it a likely possibility. There had been no evidence of petechial hemorrhage, one of the more obvious signs of suffocation. She pinched her lower lip with her thumb and forefinger as she read over the report again. Nothing except the Phenergan really jumped out. Maybe anaphylaxis? No, probably not; there was no visible edema on the body or elevated levels of serum tryptase in the blood work. She didn't want to write "Unknown" as cause of death; not for a relative of the Holmes brothers. That would be totally unacceptable.

Molly stood up and stretched, why was she so tired? Looking at the clock, she realized she had not taken a break for several hours. Time just seemed to slip away so quickly when she was involved with something. She rubbed her eyes and made her way to the canteen; time for a cup of coffee to bring her back up.

The Bart's canteen was a twin to thousands of institutional break rooms around the world. Three vending machines, a coffee maker, a microwave and a plastic folding table with several metal chairs around it. The walls were stark white, the floor covered with nondescript grey-looking vinyl tiles. Fluorescent lights hung from the ceiling. It was in a basement area not frequented by the public, so little effort had been put into décor. Billy stood in front of the food vending machine trying to decide between a healthy salad and a sugar coated, diet-busting sweet of some sort.

"Take the salad, Billy," Molly said as she entered the room.

Billy turned his head and smiled. "Ah, I don't know Miz Hooper, this confectionary delight from heaven seems to be calling my name," he paused for a moment. "No, that's not right. It's screaming, EAT ME!" he said as he shoved several coins into the slot and pressed the button beside his selection. He slid open the little door on the machine and took out his prize.

"Not a good selection for your diet, Billy," Molly jokingly admonished as she took a foam cup from a stack and began to pour herself a cup of coffee.

"Yeah, my sugar isn't going to like it at all, but I've been a good boy all week. I deserve something like this now and then," he said, sitting down at the table and beginning to unwrap the sweet.

Molly stopped pouring and sat the pot back on the burner. She cocked her head sideways and said, "Do you have diabetes, Billy?"

"Yeah, I've been type one ever since I was a little fellow," he sighed. Trying to change the subject from an obviously uncomfortable topic, he asked, "So how's the post mort on the gal from Whitehall getting on?"

Molly took a sip of her coffee and thought for a long moment. "Oh, um…it's going fine," she said distractedly. "You know, I'm sorry, but I can't stay and chat about it, I just thought of something I need to check out right away."

Molly hurried back to her desk in the morgue and grabbed the phone. Punching speed dial for Sherlock, she pounded the desk top with her fist while she waited for him to answer. Three rings. Four rings. Five. "Come on, Sherlock, answer the bloody phone," she said to herself.

"What is it Molly?" Sherlock answered.

"Was Penelope a diabetic?" she asked quickly.

He hesitated for a moment, then said, "No. You should check with Penelope's parents to confirm, but I think not. There were no…"

Molly slammed the handset back on the hook and rushed to a counter full of drawers and pulled out a biopsy kit. She then crossed to the bank of stainless steel doors that filled one wall of the room. Opening one of the cold chambers, she slid out the shelf that held the body of Penelope Masters. Unzipping the body bag, she moved the flap back out of the way. Lifting an arm, Molly located the welts she had noticed before and jammed the biopsy needle into the arm.

—Ɵ—

"There were no…" Sherlock paused for a moment, then snapped his mobile closed. "…diabetic supplies in her apartment," he finished his sentence. "It seems that our friend Molly is on the trail…."

—Ɵ—

**Author's note:** So that's it for Chapter 3. Hope you like the story so far. Although I don't have an entire plot outline yet, I have a detailed plan how things are going to go for the next two or three chapters and a basic idea of how it should come to an end. Definitely some intriguing plot twists in the future. I foresee perhaps ten chapters right now, but that could change. If you have any suggestions, nothing is set in stone yet, so I'm open to comments. As a fledgling writer, I'm very insecure. Two chapters with only one short review and only a smattering of hits is slightly disturbing to me, but the wife says for me to be patient. Her philosophy is "_If you write it, they will come…_" I'm not that patient, so if you like the way things are going, please let me know or I might just end it with "Sherlock woke up and it was all a dream…"


	4. O Brother, Where Art Thou?

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 4**

**O Brother, Where Art Thou?**

John inserted the CD into the drive of his laptop and closed the drawer. The activity light flickered as the operating system analyzed the disk format and located the file tables. Moments later a list of files popped up on the screen. "Looks like just a video file, " he said.

"Well, get on with it then," Sherlock admonished as he watched over John's shoulder. "Run the video."

John clicked on the file and adjusted the volume as the video started and a hand appeared on the screen, apparently adjusting the camera angle. The hand moved away and revealed a close-up of Penelope Master's face. Her ratty couch and a corner of the bed could be seen in the background.

Penelope cleared her throat and blinked her eyes then hesitatingly started to speak. "Um, I hope I'm just being silly making this video and it's really just my imagination. But," her voice cracked and she cleared her throat. "I guess if you are watching this then something happened to me. I'm going to label the disk "Sherlock." If you're not my cousin Sherlock, please give this CD to him." She paused and stared at the camera for a second, then continued. "Sherlock, I don't know what happened…oh God; I hope I'm not dead. I've stumbled onto some things that look awfully suspicious. I'm not sure what it is, but your brother might be involved somehow. There's something going on with a lot of shipments in and out of some places in the Middle East with invoices and shipping papers and all sorts of other documents that are all wonky. Some of them are from Mycroft's office…" She sighed and stared at the camera for a moment. "I asked my boss about a few of the invoices a few days ago and he just brushed it off. But now I've started getting anonymous calls and spoofed e-mails threatening me; telling me to mind my own business. God help me, I'm scared shitless, Sherlock. I keep finding things that just don't look right. It could be some kind of terrorist, but I don't really know. I think Mycroft might be involved…or maybe my boss or someone else in my office. Hell, I don't know! If you get this video it means something's happened. I want you to figure out what the bloody hell is going on and who's behind it." She stopped again for a second and then said, "Thanks, Sherlock." With that, her hand reached toward the camera again and the video ended.

John clicked the video application closed and turned in his chair to look up at Sherlock who had been silent during the entire presentation. There was an intensely disturbed look on his face as he considered the implications of what he had just witnessed. "Intriguing possibility," he finally said. "Mycroft obviously has the connections and plenty of opportunities for what she was suspecting. I seriously doubt that my brother would engage in activities of that nature without good reason. Something else is in the wind here."

There was a knock on their door and Mrs. Hudson came into the room. "Someone to see you, Sherlock," she said as she entered the room with a diminutive, black-haired, twenty-something girl behind her. The girl stepped around the housekeeper and boldly walked across the room towards Sherlock. Her jet black hair matched her black sleeveless T-shirt and jeans. A tattooed ring of flames circled her left arm and her eyebrows were pierced with several silver studs. She stopped squarely in front of the detective. Twenty centimeters shorter than him, she looked up at his face. She was definitely invading his personal space. "You wanted to see me, Sherlock?" she asked with a commanding voice.

Sherlock involuntarily cocked his head but avoided stepping back. He was slightly perturbed by her closeness but tried not to show it. "Yes," he said as he reached in his pocket. "I have something I need you to take a look at." He pulled out the small devices that they had found in Penelope's apartment and placed them in her hand. "I suspect this one may be a keyloger, it was on a keyboard cable. The other one was on a monitor."

The girl looked at the devices over in her hand. She moved to a table lamp near the couch and held the objects under the light to see them more clearly. "Nice work," she said, poking and turning them over with her finger. "Very compact, maybe Government Issue, but not off-the-shelf stuff. This is bleeding edge. Maybe MI5 or 6. There's a PS/2 connection on this one," she pointed at the keyloger. "That's unusual because everything being made now is USB." She turned and looked up at Sherlock again. "You're probably correct about it being a keyloger, the other one might be a video transmitter. If that's the case, they're a lot more advanced than anything I've seen before. I'd need to run some diagnostics on them to be sure what you've got."

Sherlock nodded his head. "Go ahead and take them," he said. "Let me know what you find out."

"You got it," she said and glanced in John's direction. Noticing his Apple laptop, she sniffed lightly and frowned. "Stone knives and bearskins," she said under her breath and turned to leave.

Mrs. Hudson escorted her out of the room.

"And that was?" John inquired as Sherlock turned around.

"One of my many underground contacts," Sherlock murmured, folding his arms. "An extremely active hacker involved in a lot of things we probably don't want to know about. She doesn't like her name bandied about…she's paranoid about that."

"Part of the tinfoil hat brigade?" John joked.

"You might say that, yes; and with good reason."

—Ɵ—

Molly grabbed the page as soon as the printer finished and double checked the numbers. Yes, she was correct. There was an extremely elevated insulin level at the injection site. She picked up the phone and speed dialed Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.

"Lestrade," he answered.

"Insulin," said Molly. "Penelope Masters was given a massive dose of insulin aspart. She'd been dead for twelve hours or longer when the body came in, rigor had already passed. By that time the blood was starting to deteriorate and I missed seeing any problem with the blood sugar numbers. But there were still traces of it in the tissues at the injection site."

"How much insulin are we talking about, Molly?"

"I'm not exactly sure, but it was a lot. As a non-diabetic, her body would have handled an overdose that would easily kill a diabetic person. I'm not sure about the precise amount that would have been needed, but I'd guess a thousand units might do it, maybe two. That's why there were still traces in her arm. A thousand units would be a full vial."

"Did you find anything else?" Lestrade asked.

"There was some Phenergan, but not enough to kill her. It would have made her pretty drowsy though. I can do a vitrectomy if you like. The fluid in the eyes doesn't deteriorate as quickly as the blood, but I would probably come to the same conclusion."

"No, that won't be necessary. Thank you, Molly."

"I'll get my post mort paperwork finished up and fax a copy to your office within the hour," she said.

"Okay, that will be fine. I'll watch for it."

"Goodbye, Inspector." Molly hung up the receiver and picked up the post mortem report form for Penelope.

—Ɵ—

Sherlock's phone vibrated and played a few musical notes. He pulled it out of his pocket and looked at the caller ID. "Hello, Anthea, what has happened to Mycroft?"

Sherlock obviously knew that she wouldn't be calling him unless Mycroft was unable to, but the detective's ability to pick up on details like that so quickly never ceased to amaze Anthea. "He's missing," she replied. "I sent a car to pick him up at the Diogenes Club but when the driver arrived he wasn't there. I ran a check of CCTV coverage of the area and another car picked him up a few minutes before ours arrived. The number plates on it were invalid."

"What about his phone? Have you checked its GPS coordinates?" Sherlock asked impatiently.

"We found a homeless fellow with it a few blocks from the club. He says he found it in a gutter. We've tried to track the other car with CCTV, but it drove into an area with very poor coverage...we lost it. Something's up, Sherlock but I'm not sure what it is. Mycroft has been involved in some sort of personal business over the last few weeks and has been very secretive about it. This is not something he has shared with anyone, including myself. If word gets out that he is missing, heads will roll."

"And?" Sherlock prompted her.

Anthea paused for a moment. She didn't want to say what Sherlock eagerly wanted to hear. "I need to keep this as quiet as possible."

"And?" Sherlock repeated.

"And I need your help," she finally admitted.

Sherlock twirled around merrily and grinned at John then silently pumped his arm in a gesture of victory. "I would be delighted to assist you, Anthea," he calmly replied. "I will begin looking into this right away."

Ending the call, Sherlock mused, "O brother, where art thou?"

—Ɵ—

**Author's Note:** I have been advised by my lovely wife that I've been referring to Penelope's _FLAT_ as an _APARTMENT_. While I acknowledge the error, to keep continuity I plan to continue referring to it in American jargon. I shall remember this distinction should I begin a new story at a later date.

Also, I've received a few more reviews, assuaging my fears for the moment. Thank you.

I am working on a way to involve Molly a bit more and get her out of the morgue. She is a popular character that folks like reading about. Also I have a tentative plan on how to explain the absence of Penelope's cat for the feline lovers, it may evolve into another plot twist; I'm not sure at this moment. As for Lestrade, his crew is working behind the scenes and will contribute at least one more twist to plot, but I don't think I'm going to get too involved with his machinations. Everything is still being roughed out, but I'll get us to a resolution of this mystery eventually.


	5. Tea and Kittens

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 5**

**Tea and Kittens**

Sherlock entered Twining's on Strand and stood still for a moment until his eyes adjusted to the light. He was here to meet with Anthea to get further details on Mycroft's disappearance. Soon he saw her near the end of the tasting counter standing beside a man in a dark suit and waistcoat. In the dim light it might have been easy to mistake him for Mycroft had he not been a couple of stones heavier.

Althea introduced Sherlock to Reginald Morris, a colleague of Mycroft's. Sherlock reluctantly shook hands with him as she explained that Reginald was one of the few who was aware of his brother's absence and that he was investigating holes in security protocols at the Diogenes Club.

"So I finally get to meet the recluse brother!" he said, continuing to shake Sherlock's hand. "I've heard a lot about you, although most of it not through Mycroft. Hopefully you can help us shed some light on this sticky situation."

Sherlock sniffed his nose lightly and said "Yes," as he extracted his hand from Reginald's grip. "My brother and I are not on the closest of terms much of the time. However, as they say, blood is thicker than water. I need you to fill me in on details regarding security at the Diogenes Club and what transpired prior to his disappearance if we are to get to the bottom of this."

Reginald reached into the right pocket of his waistcoat and brought out a Blackberry phone. "This is Mycroft's," he said, handing it to Sherlock. "We retrieved it from a homeless fellow a few blocks from the club who claims he found it in the gutter. We checked it for fingerprints and DNA trace, nothing useful though. There's nothing in its memory that appears odd either."

Sherlock glanced at the phone. He made a mental note to look at it later, putting the phone in his pocket. "I need details about what took place at the Diogenes Club." he repeated.

Reginald blinked and then realized he had ignored the detective's earlier question. "Oh, yes. Mycroft asked Anthea to send a car to pick him up at the secure entrance to the club. She contacted me and I dispatched one right away, but he was already gone when it arrived. I spoke to the head of security at the club and confirmed his story using the club security videos. A Bentley pulled up to the entrance about five minutes before the one I dispatched. Mycroft was waiting and walked straight to the car. One of the Diogenes Club security men opened the rear door for him and he got in. The vehicle left immediately. Nobody checked the driver's credentials, a breach of club security protocol for government officials."

"And CCTV cameras show nothing?" Sherlock prompted.

"We had some problems tracking the vehicle, it passed through several areas with substandard coverage and it doubled back a few times. I suspect a vehicle switch made somewhere along the route as well. We still haven't located it. The number plates were registered to a Bentley belonging to the DWP which was wrecked several weeks ago."

Turning to Althea, Sherlock said, "I believe this must be related to Penelope's death in some way. Molly Hooper called me earlier and confirmed that she was murdered. I've sent her and John to double check some other things for me."

"Mycroft did pull in some favors to get Penelope a job in the procurement office," Anthea said. "He has recently been more secretive than usual; I'm not sure what he was working on but he made several calls to the procurement office a few days before her death. I looked through the papers currently on his desk but there was nothing that appeared to be related. Most were classified documents, so I can't share them with you."

"I would not be so sure that her death is related to this," said Reginald. "Mycroft has been working on some highly classified military things. Penelope's security clearance was not high enough for her to be involved. That's a blind alley; Penelope's death is just a coincidence of timing."

"A coincidence! The odds are against its being coincidence," Sherlock said. "There are most certainly subtle forces at work here that have yet to be revealed."

—Ɵ—

John turned the key and entered Penelope's apartment for the second time, this time with Molly Hooper. Sherlock had rung up Inspector Lestrade and requested permission to clean up his cousin's apartment following her death. The Scotland Yard forensics team had checked the apartment thoroughly and was satisfied that no further evidence would be found, so Lestrade saw no problem granting access.

Sherlock's actual reason for a second visit was not to clean up, but for John and Molly to do a more detailed search of the premises. Their previous clandestine visit had been necessarily short. Sherlock believed a more detailed search was needed and that a woman's perspective might be helpful.

A small gray and black striped kitten slipped in through the door as they were entering and Molly stooped down to pet it. "Are you Penelope's?" she asked, stroking its fur as it rubbed against her leg.

"It probably is," said John, closing the door. "There's a full litter box over by the window. It could probably use something to eat and drink."

Molly searched the cabinets and found a tin of cat food. Opening it, she dumped its contents on a saucer and placed it on the floor. She then filled a small bowl with water and placed it beside the saucer.

"Well, let's get to it," said John as he sat down in front of the computer desk and opened one of its drawers. He pulled out a stack of papers and began to flip through them.

Molly began picking up the clothing strewn on the floor and going through pockets before piling them on the bed.

"Nothing but old bills and adverts," John said as he dropped the stack of paper on the desktop. He moved to the kitchen cabinets and started looking through the cans and boxes.

Molly walked to the dresser and began rummaging through it. Shortly she said, "Here's something odd," and held up the massager for John to see.

John smiled and said, "Sherlock already checked that. I think he might have been slightly embarrassed."

"No, that's not what I mean. Its location is odd. If this were mine," Molly continued, "it wouldn't be across the room hidden in the back of a dresser drawer. I'd keep it in the nightstand beside my bed." She thumbed the switch on but nothing happened. "Dead batteries?" she said, opening the battery compartment. Inside was a small square of manila card stock. Printed on it in red were the words "CLAIM TICKET" and the number 3845.

"That sounds like the same number as on the matchbook we found earlier," said John. "I think you found a clue, Molly."

The kitten, having finished its meal, began rubbing against John's leg seeking his attention. "Hello Puss," he said, "what's your name?" He picked it up and held it against his chest as he examined the small tag attached to its collar. "What's this?"

Molly walked over and looked at the tag between John's fingers. "That's not a name tag," she said.

"No, it's a USB memory stick," John replied.

—Ɵ—

**Author's Note:** Sorry for the delay in getting this chapter transcribed. I've had several different scenes in my head but have been unable to decide in what order they need to be presented. Add to that the problem that my son and his wife visited with us for a few days and were sleeping in my computer room, making it a bit of a problem finding the time to put this in print.

You can read about recent events in my new blog at .com. I plan to post a running commentary about my work on this story along with other life events as they occur…from an everyday superhero's point of view. If you like my writing here, you may enjoy my blog also. Please take a look anyway.


	6. Loose Ends

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 6**

**Loose Ends**

"_DFNTLY MI5, WIRLES, RNGE 200 MTRS" _

Sherlock snapped his phone shut on the text message. "The devices on Penelope's computer were MI5," he told John.

"Military Intelligence?" John replied.

"Someone was very, very interested in my late cousin's activities. Penelope said on her video that there were things moving in and out of the Middle East. Perhaps there is some sort of terrorist connection. There are a number of things we need to do, but first let us take a look at the memory stick you found on the cat's collar."

John slid the stick into the USB port on his laptop and opened a list of files. "Looks like a spreadsheet and some image files," he said, clicking on the spreadsheet.

Rows and columns appeared on the screen. "Dates, descriptions, origins, destinations …it looks like a list of shipments." John scanned the description column, most of them cryptic numbers. "Mostly military hardware," he said, "a lot of anti-personnel stuff. Guns, rockets, gas grenades, body armour, even some vehicles. Everything you would need for a major offensive strike. But all of it is going to what looks like legitimate military destinations." He turned and looked at Sherlock. "From a military standpoint, I don't see anything out of order here."

Sherlock tapped his chin with his finger for a moment then said, "Take a look at the image files."

John opened the first image which was a scanned copy of a military requisition form. "A request for a lot of guns; L9A1's, P266's, L85A2's, et cetera. Pistols, grenade launchers, sniper rifles…signed by Mycroft Holmes." John flipped back to the spreadsheet. "Here it is; the date it was shipped, origin point, destination and so forth." He opened another image. "Osprey body armour, MK7 helmets, and a CVR(T) armoured personnel carrier; again with Mycroft's signature." He opened several more of the image files, all were variations on the same theme; military weapons and supplies, all requisitioned by Mycroft Holmes. "Nothing really strange here except that they were all requested by your brother," he said.

Sherlock placed his left hand under his right arm, cradled his chin with his right hand, turned on his heel, and began pacing the room. "This isn't Mycroft's usual area of concentration," he mused tapping his cheek with a finger. "He's usually more involved with internal affairs, threats to national security, not international things. Sending military weapons…guns, mortars, bombs overseas…" he mumbled. "What is he up to…and where has he gone?"

—Ɵ—

Molly stepped out of the cab in front of the shop. The purple awning advertised "Pawn Shop" in large white letters. She opened the door and a small bell attached to the door frame tinkled, alerting the shop owner he had a customer.

"Be right with you," a voice from behind a curtain announced. Molly looked around the small lobby. The walls and counters were covered with bric-a-brac, the detritus of years; German cuckoo clocks, ceramic figurines, laptop computers, cameras, knives. It was a hoarder's dream kingdom. "How can I help you?" said an older gent who appeared from behind the curtain. He wore thick horn rim glasses, white shirt, dark trousers, and braces; the perfect stereotype of a little old shopkeeper.

Molly smiled to herself at his appearance then pulled the manila card Sherlock had given her from her pocket. She cleared her throat before nervously saying "I'd like to claim this please," and placed the card on the counter in front of him. She had never been in a pawn shop; this was a totally new experience for her.

Picking up the card, the man examined the number then thumbed through a box of receipts he pulled from beneath the counter. Pulling out a receipt, he said "Ah, here it is; wait one moment while I get it…" and he disappeared behind the curtain again.

Molly could hear him in the back room rummaging through things, searching for whatever it was she was claiming and muttering to himself. After a couple of minutes the shopkeeper reappeared holding a large intricately carved wooden box. Setting it on the counter he said, "That will be twenty pounds, please," and started filling out a receipt for the item.

Molly fumbled in her purse for her wallet and withdrew the bills. Handing the money to the shopkeeper, he slid the box across the counter to her along with the receipt. Trying to act nonchalant about the entire transaction, Molly gathered up the box and receipt and turned to leave. "Have a nice day!" the shopkeeper said as she exited the shop.

—Ɵ—

Dark. Very dark. Mycroft slowly awoke and shook his head a bit to clear his thoughts. He could see the faint outline of a door and little else. He was sitting up in a chair but restrained somehow. His arms and legs were firmly bound. His mouth was covered with something that felt like gaffer's tape. He wiggled a bit to no avail. The sharp edges of the front of his seat dug into the back of his legs a bit. _Where am I? What happened?_ he thought to himself. He tried to recall his last memory. The Diogenes Club. Getting in the limo. That was about it. Wait…the smell…there had been a strong offensive smell when he got in. He tried to identify what he had smelled. Chloroform? Ether? Something very aromatic and medicinal. Obviously he had been kidnapped. Who? Why? What did they want? He wiggled again but it was clear he wouldn't be able to get free.

After several minutes, the door opened and a man stepped into the room. He snapped a switch on the wall turning on an overhead lamp. The man wore a cheap brown suit and a garish green and yellow tie. His head was covered with a rubber mask of the queen. "The sleeper awakes," he said with a sarcastic tone of voice. "Have a nice nap?"

Mycroft wiggled again and shook his head violently. He tried to scream "What the bloody hell is going on?" but the gaffer's tape effectively muffled it into "Mmmft mm mffnf mmn mm mmng m."

The man spoke. "I wanted to kill you, but that's not going to happen just yet. We need you alive for a while longer." He walked behind Mycroft and tugged on his bonds to make sure everything was still secure. He came back around, bent over and put his masked face directly in front of Mycroft's peering deeply into his eyes. "Don't want you getting loose."

Mycroft jogged his head forward quickly, trying to head-butt his tormentor, but he pulled back quickly. "Oh my!" the man exclaimed with false surprise, "let's not get violent!" He chuckled at his comment and walked to the door. "I'll be back," he said in a painfully terrible Austrian accent, closing the door behind him.


	7. Puzzles

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 7**

**Puzzles**

Something wasn't right. Mycroft doing requisitions was totally beneath him. He was top brass, a mover and a shaker…albeit a lazy one. Sherlock stood and looked out the window at the traffic on Baker Street. Why? Where? He ran his fingers through his hair, then clutched a handful and tugged a bit. Think, Sherlock, think! The requisitions, there had to be something there.

"John," he shouted, "let me see those requisitions again!"

John put down the newspaper he had been skimming through and lifted the screen of his laptop. The virtual desktop appeared and he opened the memory stick that was still plugged into the USB port. Clicking on the first requisition form, he turned the computer slightly so that Sherlock could see its screen.

The detective's eyes flitted back and forth, scanning the image on the screen. After a few moments he said, "Next one."

John clicked on the next file and a new image replaced the first. This time Sherlock barely hesitated before he said, "Next."

"Again."

John quickly flipped through a half dozen images at Sherlock's prompting.

"Yes! Did you see it?" Sherlock crowed.

"See what?" John asked.

"The signatures, the signatures! They're all the same!"

"Of course they're the same; the forms were all signed by Mycroft."

"No, no, you don't understand. They are EXACTLY the same!" Sherlock looked at the ceiling and threw his hands in the air. "It's a rubber stamp for God's sake! Of course! Hah! It's a bloody rubber stamp!" He pointed at the computer screen and continued, "My brother didn't sign those forms! When someone has to sign documents on a regular basis they have a rubber stamp of their signature. Not only does it save them time, an assistant can sign documents for them in their absence. He didn't do it! Someone else requisitioned those supplies and used Mycroft's signature to get them approved!"

Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket, flipped it open and started pressing its keys. The speaker beeped several DTMF tones as he put it to his ear. "Anthea, Sherlock. Does Mycroft ever sign requisition forms?"

"Not regularly, but he does occasionally," Anthea replied.

"And you keep a copy of them?"

"Certainly."

"Check to see if there is one signed on…" he paused for a moment and peered at the image on the computer screen. "November the twenty-fifth of last year," he finished.

"I can't disclose details about Mycroft's requisitions," she said, "that's classified information."

"I don't want the details, just check to see if you have one for that date."

"Just a moment."

Sherlock could hear rustling in the background, the sound of a file drawer opening, hanging folders sliding on their rails, papers being shuffled and reshuffled. The tap-tap-tap of the edges being aligned on the desktop. More shuffling.

"I can't find anything for that date," she finally said.

Sherlock prompted John to display another requisition. "Try January seventh of this year."

More shuffling, more tapping.

"No, nothing there either," said Anthea.

"You've been very helpful," Sherlock said as he snapped his mobile closed. "That confirms the gambit," he said to Molly and John, "Mycroft did not sign those forms."

—Ɵ—

Molly knocked on the door at 221b; the bell was still out of order following the shooting incident. Mrs. Hudson opened the door. "Come in, Molly!" she said with a smile.

Molly stepped across the threshold and nodded at the wooden box cradled under her arm. "I have something for Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson," she said.

"Go on up Molly, I'm sure the boys will be happy to see you."

Molly climbed the stairs and knocked on Sherlock's door. "Come in, Molly!" Sherlock called. She rolled her eyes, how did he always know it was her?

She opened the door and walked into the room. Sherlock was standing behind John who was working on his computer.

"And what have we here?" Sherlock said as he approached Molly and took the box from her. "Extraordinary! A Japanese Himitsu-Bako." He turned the box around and examined all of its surfaces. "Very interesting design," he continued. "Not a classic, most likely a recent knockoff for the tourist trade. It is very well-made though."

"And please inform us; just what is a Himitsu-Bako?" John was slightly annoyed that Sherlock assumed both he and Molly should know what a bloody Himitsu-Bako was.

Sherlock glanced at John and then returned his attention to the box, pushing and shoving on its surfaces. "Himitsu-Bako, a Japanese puzzle box," he explained. "They originated during the nineteenth century in the Hakone region. A personal secrets box, a safety deposit box of sorts. They can't be opened unless you know the correct series of moves and twists required to unlock them."

Sherlock continued shoving and twisting on the surfaces and edges of the box. A panel slid, then another. Twist, slide, twist, twist, slide, push, slide, lift. The box sprang open in Sherlock's hand. Its blue satin-lined interior contained three neatly folded pieces of paper. He handed the box to Molly, took out the paper on top, and unfolded it.

"A list of dates," he said scanning the page full of handwritten data, "in chronological order with notations behind each one."

John was looking at another page. "This one as well," he said.

"What year is yours dated?"

"Last year," said John.

"This one is for this year," Sherlock said.

"Mine is from two years ago," said Molly, looking at the third page.

Sherlock gathered all three sheets and compared them to each other. "Dates and two columns of abbreviations. Several of the abbreviations in the first column are 'MH,' most certainly Mycroft Holmes. Yes, November twenty-fifth of last year has 'MH' in the first column and 'NR' in the second." He shuffled the pages. "All of the notations in the second column are either 'NR' or 'R.' All of Mycroft's say 'NR' while the vast majority of the rest are marked 'R.'" Sherlock pondered the abbreviations for a moment, then continued. "RECEIVED and NOT RECEIVED. Shipments of supplies are being sent out but not arriving at their destinations." He threw the pages he held into the air. "So simple! A falsified requisition is sent to the supply depot but isn't recorded anywhere else. The supplies are sent out but never show up at the destination. No flags are raised on the receiving end because they weren't expecting a shipment to begin with!" Sherlock sauntered around the room for a bit. "Certainly there are some details that need to be sorted out, but I believe we have found what Penelope was onto!"

John frowned and nodded his head, "Yes, It would take additional help from folks behind the scenes at both locations, but that could possibly work," he said.

"John, can you use your military contacts to check with the logistics specialists at the various destinations to confirm these shipments were never received?"

John hesitated for a moment, considering the proposition. "It could be a trifle difficult, the military being what it is. But I may be able to manage it on a few of them. I was stationed at two of these bases for a while, so they might be open to my inquiry."

"Good, good," Sherlock mumbled as he paced around the room. He was already pondering the next piece of the puzzle.

—Ɵ—

Sweat rolled down Mycroft's forehead and stung his eyes. He shook his head, trying to clear it away. The closed, windowless room was very warm. He was still wearing his suit and waistcoat which acerbated the problem. He made a mental note that it most likely meant at least one of the walls of his prison was an outside and faced the sun. The room itself was very drab with pale tan walls. The wooden floor had at one time had a coat of dark brown paint but it was chipped and peeling from years of feet walking across it. The room was very sparsely furnished, no pictures on the walls, only a chair near the door and a small desk with a telephone.

The man in the mask entered the room again with a plastic cup and a roll of gaffer's tape. Removing the tape already covering Mycroft's mouth, he held the cup to Mycroft's lips. "Drink," he said, "don't want you getting dehydrated in this heat."

He took a sip, and then sputtered when the man tipped the cup too quickly and water ran up his nose. "Can you let me go to the loo?" Mycroft asked, "my bladder is about to burst!"

The man laughed. "I can't let you go, it's too risky. You're just going to have to just piss your pants, Mister Holmes."

"What do you want?"

"Want? I want to kill you, but like I said before, I've been outvoted for now. You might be useful as a bargaining chip later on or some such rot."

The man replaced the gaffer's tape on Mycroft's mouth and turned towards the door. As he left the room he spoke in a sinister tone. "You know, I'm eventually going to get my wish."


	8. Phone Tag

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 8**

**Phone Tag**

Sherlock pressed the callback button on his mobile phone. Anthea answered after the first ring, "Hello?"

"Anthea," he said, "is this line secure?"

"Yes," she replied.

"Reginald Morris is involved in both Penelope's murder and Mycroft's disappearance; I'm certain of it," Sherlock continued. "There were needle pricks on the tips of Reginald's fingers when we shook hands. He's several stones overweight. Also there was the faintest odor of an Elastoplast lingering about him. When you first open one up to slap it on a cut there's a strong medicinal odor. That's creosol, carbolic acid; it's used to sterilize, dissolve or dilute other chemicals. It's also used in insulin and gives it the same distinctive smell, although not quite as strong. Reginald is an insulin dependent diabetic. Penelope died from a massive insulin overdose. He is also trying to keep Mycroft's disappearance under wraps and tried to discourage me from linking the two events together. I have additional evidence that he has apparently falsified documents using Mycroft's name. There is at least one other person helping him, but Reginald is the primary in all of this. Where is he now?"

"In his office," Anthea answered. "I've been very concerned about how he's been acting but not exactly sure who to contact. Covering up Mycroft's disappearance is completely opposite of what should be happening…but Reggie is head of office security and is handling Mycroft's duties in his absence. He has me telling everyone that Mycroft is out of the country attending some sort of high level conference."

Sherlock thought for a moment. "I need to figure out who he is working with and try to resolve the puzzle of what he's done with my brother. I'll get back to you soon."

—Ɵ—

The man pulled a cold can of lager from the cooler and closed the lid. Snapping open the top, he took a drink then sat the can on the table beside the rubber mask. There were no programmes on the telly worth watching and he was getting tired of thumbing through the old girlie mags he had found in one of the kitchen drawers. They just made him randy and there wasn't much he could do about that just now. He glanced at the girl's computer sitting on the floor. "_I should have taken the monitor and other stuff,"_ he thought, "_then_ _I could hook it up and play some solitaire_."

Thinking about computers reminded him. He shifted in his seat and looked at the black and white security monitor as it mindlessly displayed images from the cameras scattered throughout the house and grounds. It was currently showing the front door, nobody there. After two seconds the display flipped and showed the Bentley limo in the garage. Next it showed him sitting in the kitchen. He waved at the camera. Mycroft's room was next; he had stopped struggling against his bonds and appeared to be napping. "_Boring_," the man thought as he picked up one of the pornographic magazines and took another drink.

He was busy fantasizing about doing naughty things to the chick with the big charlies when he was startled by the telephone ringing. "Ballocks!" he exclaimed, and jumped up out of the chair, dropping the magazine on the floor. Zipping up his trousers, he stepped to the telephone hanging on the wall and answered, "Yeah?"

"How is our visitor doing?" a voice on the other end of the line asked curtly.

"Not a happy chappy, he says he's got to go and is begging to use the crapper."

"You know what I said about that."

"Yeah, yeah. I already told him to just let go in his knickers. He wasn't too happy about that. I gave him some water and just fed him a banana; he's conked out right now. Listen, when can I get out of here?"

There was a long pause then the voice on the phone said, "Soon. Meanwhile you need to be paying close attention to him. We don't need him getting loose."

"Yeah, well I am watching him, but I need to show my frickin' face back at the office or people will start thinking I'm skiving. They're probably already wondering where in bloody hell I am."

"Don't worry. I'll be there in a little while to relieve you. Also, we need to talk about what we're going to do with him. This situation is getting more cocked up by the hour, but I'm working on a solution to our problem."

"Shake a leg then, the sooner you get here the better, I'm about to go stir crazy just sitting here with nothing to do."

"Right, well make yourself busy then by swapping the number plates again on the Bentley. I need to get it back before it's missed," the voice said and hung up.

He looked at the dead phone handset then slammed it back on the hook. "Wuss," he muttered and opened a drawer of the kitchen cabinet to search for a screwdriver.

—Ɵ—

Reginald Morris hung up the phone. He looked again at his computer monitor. On the screen was a remote video feed from the MI5 safe house he was using to keep Holmes out of circulation. Wanking in the kitchen while he was supposed to be watching their prisoner; the stupid bastard was going to screw up something else and get them both caught if he didn't get this thing contained soon. He should have stopped the operation as soon as Mycroft had hired the little tart to spy for him. The fool had just kept right on processing the requisitions like nothing was out of the ordinary and didn't even say anything about her. By the time he discovered she was working there it was too late. He felt like a three-legged cat trying to cover its crap on a tile floor. They should have taken care of Mycroft first. With him out of the way she might have just dropped the whole thing. Poor planning is what it amounted to. Closing the video feed application, he sat and thought about what he needed to do next.

—Ɵ—

"You were correct about the shipments not arriving," said John as he hung up the phone. "They hadn't received any of them. They were surprised by my call, Penelope had called them a few weeks ago asking about the same shipments. They weren't expecting further contact."

Sherlock smiled. "Just as I thought," he said. Turning his back to John, he stared at the ceiling. "So…where? Where are the supplies going?" he said to himself.

"Nowhere," replied John.

Sherlock turned back to look at John and raised his eyebrows. "Nowhere?" he said.

"I also took the liberty of calling the supply depots and manufacturers on the requisitions," John continued. "None of the requisitions were ever submitted to them. There's no record of any of them. The supplies were never ordered, so they were never shipped. There weren't any supplies, just phantom orders."

—Ɵ—

**Author's Note:** I want to thank the folks that have added this story to their alerts. It gives me great joy to see those notices pop up in my e-mail. A few comments or reviews might be better, but I'll take whatever encouragement I can get. ;-)

Thanks also to my lovely wife who has been proofing my work, helping me with a few plot ideas and suggesting some dialogue changes; your help has been invaluable.


	9. That Evening

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 9**

**That Evening**

Mycroft woke to the sound of the telephone ringing. How long had he been here? With no windows it was difficult to judge time passing. His internal clock was mostly based on his bladder; it told him he had been there an extremely long time. The room was quiet, but he could faintly hear his captor talking on the telephone, then the handset being slammed on the hook followed by some scraping and rattling sounds, the sound of a door hinge squeaking, and then nothing. Had his captor had left the premises? Mycroft strained to hear more but there was nothing.

No, wait, there were outside noises; train noises. Not just a single train, several trains. Like a train station nearby. In the distance he heard the sound of a boat whistle. Trains near the water. Mycroft tried to picture a map of London in his head. Trains and water. He listened more closely. Traffic sounds, well that didn't help except to confirm he was probably still in London. Lorries, lots of big lorries, maybe a commercial area, but more likely industrial. He tried to recall, had he heard any other sounds? Vaguely he remembered hearing an ambulance. No, more than one; several ambulances. Not frequently enough to be a major hospital, but perhaps a small emergency clinic of some sort. Trains, boats, medical, possibly industrial…still not enough to pinpoint a location but he was starting to narrow it down to a handful of areas.

Mycroft looked around the barren room. Not much to go on here. Yet the chair and telephone table looked oddly familiar; had he seen those somewhere before? He considered the room again. No windows, dreary tan walls, painted and scuffed wooden floor. Some sort of a secure…then he realized where he was. The bed and most of the other furniture had been removed, the walls had been repainted since he was last here, but he had been here before. He was in the secure holding room of a safe house. More specifically, it was the MI5 safe house near Battersea. It was close to the Thames and a commuter train switching yard. He didn't recall any hospitals close by, but there were several just across the Chelsea bridge. He looked carefully above the door. Yes, there, a pinhole camera. He recalled Reggie Morris had scheduled this place to be decommissioned, something about the location being compromised. They were holding him in a damned MI5 safe house!

He angrily struggled against his bonds with quiet but renewed fervor and noticed that the gaffer tape holding him was beginning to loosen. The heat of the room was making it more pliable. Perhaps if he worked at it he could eventually get himself free. He just needed for his captor to stay away for a while.

—Ɵ—

Reginald sighed. Everything was going to go to hell if he didn't do something quick. Anthea contacting Mycroft's brother behind his back was not planned for. He was chief of security here, why couldn't she just let him take care of it? His meeting with Sherlock had probably been a bad idea too; he'd just played along to keep Althea placated. But the brother was a good one for sticking his nose where it didn't belong.

He drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched the remote video feed on the computer monitor flip through the cameras. The dusk-to-dawn outside lights had flicked on, it was getting dark. Mycroft was awake and struggling with his bonds again, he seemed more agitated this time. The kitchen was empty, a can of lager, the silly rubber mask, the girlie mags and some things they had emptied from Mycroft's pockets lay on the table. Tumbleson was in the garage changing the number plates on the Bentley. He wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but at least he did as he was told. That he had risen to supervisory level was a tribute to government inefficiency.

Reginald checked the time on his desk clock. He had been dithering about what to do for nearly an hour but a new plan of action was finally beginning to coalesce in his mind; a way to put things back on the right track. He clicked the computer mouse and started a new document. It was time to write a full confession of guilt.

—Ɵ—

"While I have some respect for your opinion, that's not enough evidence to convince me," Lestrade said. "Just because he's diabetic and has access to high tech listening devices doesn't make the man a murderer. There must be a million diabetics in London and your brother himself could have planted the devices you found. I need some rock solid evidence if I'm going to start investigating an MI5 security chief."

Sherlock closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. "Seven hundred thousand," he said in exasperation.

"Beg your pardon?" Lestrade asked.

"Seven hundred thousand diabetics. Nine point five percent of the adult population in London is diabetic. Based on current population estimates, that means there are slightly over seven hundred thousand diabetics in London. Not everyone in London knew or even met Penelope. Even if a generous estimate of three thousand people had the slightest interest in her, fewer than three hundred of them would be diabetic." Lestrade could be so dense sometimes. "Okay, I will concede that being a diabetic is not enough for an arrest," he continued, "are there any other leads or do you have any suspects? Do you have a clue? Was there anything on Penelope's computer?"

"The case is still open but our forensics team has not found anything significant yet. They're still processing a few things. The pathology report is complete, it was definitely murder. My people are presently interviewing her coworkers. Nobody seems to have taken much notice of her except to say that she'd been a bit nervous acting the last week or so. We have yet to interview her supervisor; he's taken sick leave for a few days. Penelope left work early on the day she was murdered; complaining of being extremely tired. We are guessing it was the effects of the Phenergan in her system. At the present time we have not identified any primary suspects."

"Yes, Molly told me about the Phenergan, also known as Sominex; a popular sleep aid. Usually white or pale yellow tablets, odorless, dissolves easily in water. It could have been in her coffee or tea." Sherlock furrowed his brow, tightening his eyes a bit more, and continued to rub his forehead. "And what about her computer?" he asked.

"There was no computer in her apartment, just the peripherals. Very curious."

Sherlock quickly opened his eyes. "Curious indeed; find her computer and you will have her murderer," he said.

"That would be highly probable," said Lestrade.

—Ɵ—

It was getting late; the busy daytime sounds of Bart's were shifting over to night mode. It was a quieter time, most of the day staff had gone home to their families. The night shift had arrived and was starting to pick up the pieces, preparing the hospital for a new day tomorrow. The morgue was normally staffed with just two orderlies and one pathologist at night. The pathologist scheduled for tonight had talked Molly into taking his shift so he could attend a bachelor party. She looked at the stack of post-mort reports still sitting on her desk. Her recent escapades with Sherlock and John had consumed a lot of time and she needed to work late to catch up with the paperwork anyway. The time she had spent helping Sherlock was far from wasted. She considered it more like an investment; she was sure he would respond eventually. She just needed to continue nurturing their relationship.

The intercom buzzed loudly, startling Molly. She pressed a button, "Yes?" she said.

"Hastings and Finn, Morticians; we're here to claim the body of Penelope Masters."

"Okay, just a moment," Molly said. It was not unusual for a pickup to be made this late, the movement of dead bodies during visiting hours tended to upset some people. She quickly looked through the paperwork for Penelope to make sure everything was in order. Routine tissue samples had been taken and placed in storage. A release form from Scotland Yard indicated they had no further interest in the body. The post-mort report was completed. Everything looked in order. She walked to the door and let them in.

Two burly men in bright blue coveralls entered the morgue with a collapsible gurney. Embroidered names on their chests proclaimed they were Larry and Moe. Molly suppressed a smile as she imagined Curly still sitting outside in the Mariah. "Sign here," she said and handed Moe a clipboard.

Molly helped them move the body bag that contained Penelope's remains onto the gurney and covered it with a fresh white cotton sheet. She handed Larry a small bag containing Penelope's personal effects and the two men wheeled the gurney into the hallway. Molly returned to her desk and its awaiting paperwork. It was going to be a long night.

—Ɵ—

Reginald Morris read over the document one more time to make sure everything was in order. It confessed to the murders of Penelope Masters and his accomplice Leonard Tumbleson, detailed the illegal transfer of government funds to a Swiss bank account, and ended with a bittersweet suicide note. He reset the computer clock to yesterday morning, saved it via the local network onto the hard drive of the office server and printed a copy. He then reset the computer clock to the current time. Pulling the page from the printer he folded it neatly and placed it in the inside breast pocket of his suit coat. "Let's get this show on the road," he said to himself.


	10. The Chase Scene

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 10**

**The Chase Scene**

Anthea's laptop bleeped. She rubbed her eyes and yawned, it had been a long night. A red dot flashed on a simplified street map of London. Shifting in the seat, she reached for her Blackberry and began tapping on its tiny keyboard.

**ON THE MOVE  
ANT**

She put the phone on the passenger seat beside the laptop where she could see both screens and started her engine. She had training in surveillance, but she normally didn't get involved with this side of the business. But then, this wasn't a normal situation.

Her Blackberry chimed and displayed a text reply.

**LEAVING NOW  
SH**

She pulled away from the curb as Reginald's black Bentley exited the parking garage.

—Ɵ—

"No time to waste, John, get to the Range Rover!" Sherlock shouted, pocketing his phone. "Let us see where he leads us!"

John Watson grabbed his laptop and quickly followed Sherlock to their vehicle.

Sherlock could nervously feel his adrenaline level rising. He felt like Batman with Robin in tow as they pursued The Joker with the Batmobile.

After talking with Lestrade, he remained convinced that Reginald Morris was behind Penelope's murder as well as Mycroft's disappearance. Contacting Anthea, he requested her to use her resources to plant a GPS tracking device on Reggie's car. He knew something had to happen soon. Now the rabbit was running; the chase was on.

John turned on his laptop and started the GPS application, punching in the numbers that Anthea had provided to them. A screen similar to the one on Anthea's laptop soon appeared on his.

Sherlock started the engine and quickly pulled out of the parking space, squealing the tires. John tightened his grip on the laptop and dry swallowed; he had forgotten to fasten his seat belt.

"Which way, John?" Sherlock said anxiously.

"He's on Marylebone, headed this way. We should be able to slip in behind him with no trouble. Just slow down and let him pass; it shouldn't be too long."

Sherlock slammed his hands against the wheel in frustration. "Take it slow? Take it slow? I need to drive fast! This is the chase scene!"

"It's surveillance, Sherlock! We're following him, not running him off the road. Calm down. We need to get behind him, not in front of him."

Sherlock reluctantly slowed down to a crawl. Fortunately traffic was light at this time of the evening so there were no problems. John took the opportunity to grab his seat belt and click it. The red dot on the screen slowly moved towards their location.

"He's still coming. Just a minute or two," John said.

"This is it, John. I can feel it. I need to chase him. Where is he damn it?"

"Just wait, wait. He's headed west on Marylebone. He should pass us momentarily. I can't help it that he didn't go the other way. Apparently, we are between him and his destination."

Sherlock clutched the steering wheel. He sighed and banged his head against the headrest. "Come on, come on, come on," he droned.

"Okay, get ready, he's at Regent's Park," said John.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed as he started watching the intersection before them intently.

As the Bentley cruised through the intersection of Baker Street and Marylebone Sherlock stepped on the accelerator and took up a position behind it.

"Not too close," cautioned John.

"I'm the consulting detective," Sherlock snorted indignantly, "I know how to tail a suspect. I don't need instructions."

Sherlock's pocket beeped. He pulled the phone out of his pocket and handed it to John. "Answer that."

"It's Anthea, she's behind us." John paused and then said softly, "She says you're too close."

"He needs to speed up," Sherlock spouted. "This can't be a proper chase with him plodding along at," he paused and looked at the speedometer, "seventy clicks."

"That's a normal driving speed, you need to calm down. You're on the patch, aren't you?"

"Damn the patches," Sherlock snapped, "I'm fine." He released pressure on the accelerator and dropped back a little. "See, I'm letting him get away. Are you happy now?"

"He's exiting, don't take the flyover," John said.

Sherlock drifted into the left lane to take the Edgware Road exit.

"Go left."

"Two," muttered Sherlock as he turned left on Edgware.

"What?"

"Two patches; I just used two."

John shook his head, "I knew it."

Sherlock craned his neck, "I can't see him. He's gotten away."

"He's still there. Just because there are a couple of cars between us does not mean that he's lost us. Keep going straight."

John glanced in the side mirror at the traffic behind them. Yes, there was Anthea in a red Aston Martin DBS convertible.

"There he is, I can see him again," Sherlock sighed. "Wait! No! He's getting away!"

The Bentley slid past Kendal Street as the traffic light turned red. Sherlock pushed the accelerator to the floor. "Don't!" shouted John as Sherlock sped through the light. Blue lights flashed and there was the short burst of a siren behind them.

As he pulled to the curb Sherlock saw Anthea drive slowly past. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The police officer rapped a knuckle on his window, motioning him to roll it down.

"Red means stop," he said in a joking manner, "I need to see your license, please."

Sherlock fumbled with his wallet. "I am a consulting detective for Scotland Yard," he said, extracting his driver's license and flashing it for the officer. "We are in pursuit of a dangerous suspect."

The officer took the license and glanced at it. "Yes sir, Mr. Holmes, I'll be right back," he said and turned to walk back to his vehicle.

Sherlock clenched his fists and fumed. "He's getting away!" he said under his breath to John.

John reached over, turned off the engine and pulled the keys out of the ignition switch.

"What? Wait! Put those back!"

"I know you, Sherlock. You were getting ready to pull out," John said as he dropped the keys in his pocket. "That's not a good idea. Anthea is still following Morris and we still have his location on GPS. We'll catch up, just be patient."

"Ahhhhhh!" Sherlock screamed.

—Ɵ—

Reginald pulled into the driveway and pressed the button on a remote control. The garage door gave a loud clank and rolled open. He turned off his engine, got out of the car and walked into the garage where an identical Bentley sat. Pressing a button on the wall, the garage door reversed direction and glided closed.

—Ɵ—

Anthea pulled to the curb a few houses away and turned off her headlights. It was the Battersea safe house. She had escorted many passengers to and from this location in the past. Picking up her Blackberry, she sent a text to Sherlock.

**WHR R U?  
ANT**

She received a reply almost immediately.

**ON R WAY  
B THER SOON  
JOHN**

—Ɵ—

Entering the kitchen from the garage, Reginald found Tumbleson sitting at the table playing Klondike with a deck of cards he had found in one of the drawers. "How's our boy doing?" he asked.

Tumbleson turned and looked at the video monitor behind him. "Just fine," he answered, "no problems, except he keeps asking to pee. So, ah, when are we gonna to get rid of him?"

Reginald put his hand in his pocket, and awkwardly walked over to the table in front of Tumbleson. Besides the card game in progress, there were several empty lager cans, naughty magazines, a rubber mask and several items belonging to Mycroft; including a large ring of keys, a wallet and a Glock 27 semi-automatic pistol. "Is that Mycroft's gun?" he asked.

"Yeah, he had it in a little holster under his arm."

Reggie clucked his tongue, "Tsk, tsk, tsk, Mycroft, MI5 officers aren't supposed to carry weapons.* Of course, with all the different hats he wears, I suppose one of the agencies requires them." He pulled a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and started to put them on.

"What are the gloves for?"

Reginald smiled. "Fingerprints," he said as he picked up the pistol. "And powder residue."

"Ya gonna to shoot him with his own gun?"

He ejected the magazine, checked to make sure it was loaded, and snapped it back in place. Racking a cartridge into the chamber and flipping off the safety, he sighed and placed the barrel against Tumbleson's forehead. "No, I'm not going to shoot him."

—Ɵ—

* MI5 prohibition of weapons documented by Eye Spy Magazine. Reference .


	11. The Safe House

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 11**

**The Safe House**

Tumbleson violently jerked his head away from the gun barrel and fell out of his chair onto the floor. "Bloody hell!" he screamed, "What's this? We're partners, you can't shoot me!" He scrambled across the floor away from Reggie and backed up against the kitchen counter.

"I never really considered you a partner Leonard," said Reginald. "You were just an asset to be used. Now that things are starting to fall apart, primarily due to your incompetence, you've become a liability. You are now just a thorn in my side that needs to be removed."

"But, but…" stammered Tumbleson.

"Get up off the floor, you stupid wanker," Reginald said as he motioned with the gun barrel. Tumbleson levered himself up with the countertop. "Now, get in there," and he pointed the gun at the door leading to the next room.

—Ɵ—

Sherlock parked the Range Rover behind Anthea's Aston Martin. He could see Reginald Morris's vehicle parked in front of a brick house a few doors down.

"Sorry, we were…ah…detained momentarily," he said to Anthea as he and John got out.

Anthea smiled, "Yes, so I noticed. Any problems?"

"I was released with a stern warning about safe driving practices once my identity was confirmed, so there are no additional black marks on my record." Sherlock nodded his head slightly towards the house, "What has happened so far?"

"Morris got out of his car, went in through the garage door and closed it behind him. That was just a couple of minutes ago; nothing else so far," Anthea answered.

Sherlock stared at the house for a few moments, taking in the details. "The casual observer wouldn't notice any difference between this house and its neighbors," he began, "but there have been some significant changes behind the scenes. It has a very heavy wooden door with only a tiny mail slot; most likely a steel core door. A secure electronic lock. There are four, no five, security cameras. Twice the usual number of street lamps keeping the area well lit. Poorly disguised but substantial bars on the windows. The glass in the window is much thicker than normal, probably ballistic glass, more or less bulletproof. Heavy drapes possibly lined with Kevlar or something similar. The garage door is custom built, probably just as secure as the front door. The bricks also appear to be thicker than normal and not made of normal clay." He turned and looked at Anthea. "One of yours?" he asked.

"Yes," she answered. "This is our Battersea safe house. It's for high risk targets, royalty, government officials, and visiting dignitaries. It's a place we can keep them safe from harm if someone is after them. You were right on most counts, but the door, bricks, and even the shingles on the roof contain a high amount of depleted uranium."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows a bit. "Depleted uranium, sixty-eight percent denser than lead, used for military armor plating among other things…what a brilliant idea! A bit of a cliché, but one could say that the house is built like a tank."

Anthea nodded, "There's no way we'll be able to break in."

"I wouldn't be so certain of that," Sherlock said as he started walking towards the house, "every chain has a weakest link. All you have to do is pull until it fails."

—Ɵ—

Mycroft looked up as Leonard Tumbleson entered the room with Reginald Morris behind him. Morris held a gun against Tumbleson's back.

"Get over there," Reginald said, and shoved Tumbleson towards Mycroft. "I need to figure out how to do this properly," he said.

Tumbleson moved behind the chair, trying to put something between himself and the Glock that Reginald was waving about. "Hello Mycroft, fancy meeting you here," said Reginald. Mycroft gave a disgusted look at Reginald and tried to say something but his mouth was still covered with gaffers tape. "Let him talk," Reginald said to Tumbleson, "pull off the tape."

Mycroft winced slightly as the tape was ripped from his mouth. He stared at Reginald for a moment then spoke. "I knew Tumbleson was dirty," he said, "I just wasn't completely certain who he was working with. I did suspect it might be you; that was why I placed my cousin in his office instead of someone of ours. As security chief you would have gotten wind of it. Which one of you killed her?"

"Why you did," said Reginald. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the paper he had printed earlier. "I found out about your little bitch a bit too late to cover our tracks thanks to Leonard, but I believe I can tie up all the loose ends now. I have in my hand your full confession to the murders of Penelope Masters and Leonard Tumbleson, the embezzlement of government funds, and a touching suicide note addressed to dear brother Sherlock." He tucked the paper back in his pocket as he continued, "You, Mycroft, conspired with Leonard to defraud the government by submitting falsified requisitions for some very expensive military hardware. He, in turn, did all the behind the scenes paperwork to make it look like the hardware was ordered, shipped, and received; but it was all just paperwork. Nothing really ever moved except money to pay for the supplies…which went into a secret bank account."

He sighed deeply and gave a mocking look of pity at Mycroft. "I placed some listening devices on Penelope's computer when I found out she was working in Leonard's office. She suspected you were behind all of this since your signature was on all of the documents. She left some very convincing evidence behind, I'm sure your brother will find it eventually. Once she discovered your transgression, you killed her trying to cover things up but in the end it was too late. You then lured Tumbleson here, murdered him, and then committed suicide rather than face the embarrassment of being tried and convicted of your crimes."

—Ɵ—

Anthea and John stood behind Sherlock as the detective pulled Mycroft's ID out of his wallet and swiped it through the card reader beside the door. The reader beeped and a red LED flashed. The screen displayed 'DEACTIVATED CARD.' Frowning, he swiped it again with the same results. "Damn it, Mycroft," he said and put the card back in his wallet. The incident at Baskerville probably had something to do with it. He walked over to Reginald's Bentley, looked through the passenger window, and noticed the garage remote on the seat. He tugged on the door handle…locked. Picking up a large stone, he smashed it against the window with no effect. He banged it against the window again; still nothing.

"Problems? Find that weak link yet?" asked John, trying hard to suppress his amusement at Sherlock's dilemma.

"More ballistic glass," Sherlock muttered. He walked into the street and turned around to look at the front of the house for several seconds. He steepled his fingers under his chin. "There has to be a hole in the security perimeter somewhere. The weakest link. A weak link in the chain." He thought silently for a moment then smiled slightly with the corner of his mouth. "Of course," he said, "a chain and a hole." He returned to the front door of the house, bent down slightly, and examined it carefully. "Yes, Doctor," he said, "I believe I may have located the weakest link."

—Ɵ—

Reginald reached in his pocket and pulled out a small pocket knife. "Cut him loose," he said, and tossed the knife to Tumbleson. "You can't commit suicide while you're all trussed up like that, Mycroft."


	12. Attempted Murder

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 12**

**Attempted Murder**

Tumbleson finished cutting the gaffer tape holding Mycroft's arms to the chair and began sawing on the tape around his chest. Mycroft rubbed his hands vigorously, "you won't get away with this," he said as Reggie watched Tumbleson carefully. "We already have enough to put you in Belmarsh for a long time."

"Belmarsh doesn't frighten me," Reginald answered, "I'll be away before anyone realizes I'm gone."

Tumbleson continued to struggle removing the tape. "Forget any idea about using that pissy little knife on me," Reggie said to him, waving the gun some more.

As Mycroft continued to rub his hands he removed a ring from his right hand as inconspicuously as he could. "I don't suppose you'd consider letting me go to the gents," he asked.

Reginald laughed. "No, can't let you do that. Your suffering will all be over in just a few minutes anyway."

Mycroft frowned. "Well, it was worth a try," he said.

—Ɵ—

As Sherlock backed the Range Rover up to the door of the house, Anthea said, "You're not going to be able to ram the door, it's braced to prevent that. You'd need a battering tank to push it in."

Sherlock pressed a button under the fascia to unlatch the boot and got out. "I'm not going to ram it," he said. Lifting the boot he reached in and rummaged about. "Jump leads, torch, first aid kit, where is…ah, there it is." He pulled out a length of tow chain with hooks attached to both ends. "Always be prepared for an emergency! John, crawl under and attach this to the frame," he said and held out one end of the chain to the doctor.

"Why do I get the dirty job?" John remarked as he took the chain and started to crawl under the back of the vehicle.

"Because the consulting detective said to," Sherlock said as he slipped the hook on the other end of the chain sideways through the mail slot on the door. Pulling on it to make sure the hook had trapped itself; he headed back to the Range Rover. "The door was designed to withstand battering," he explained, "but I'm wagering the reverse is not true. With enough force we should be able to pull the door out of the wall."

John pushed himself out from under the back. "Okay, it's secured."

As John stood up Sherlock looked at him closely, smiled, and pointed at his cheek, "You've got a little smudge…right…there."

John started to wipe the spot and noticed Sherlock grinning. Looking down, he could see that the entire front of his shirt and trousers were covered with road grime. "Bugger," he said, then started to laugh. "I'll put the cleaning bill on your expense voucher," he said. "Get in the damned car."

—Ɵ—

Tumbleson finished removing the tape and Mycroft stood up and flexed his legs. "Toss me the knife," Reginald said to Tumbleson, "nice and easy." Tumbleson closed the blade and tossed it.

"Now you get over here," Reginald said as he pointed the gun at Mycroft and motioned where he wanted him to stand. "Turn around and face him." Mycroft turned to face Tumbleson. "A little closer." Mycroft took a step towards Tumbleson.

Standing behind Mycroft and slightly to the side, Reginald took aim at Tumbleson. "This way any blood spatter will be on you; more incriminating evidence."

"This won't work," began Mycroft.

"Shut up," said Reginald. "Any last words?" he asked Tumbleson.

"You don't need to do this, Reggie," Tumbleson pleaded, "we just need to get rid of him and we can both get out of here."

"Too late," he said and pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened.

Puzzled, Reginald looked at the gun as if he expected it to explain what the problem was. He jacked another cartridge into the chamber and pulled the trigger again.

Nothing happened.

Mycroft held up his ring. "You need this," he said, then popped it in his mouth and swallowed.

"What…" began Reginald.

"That's an advanced ordinances prototype for MI6 covert agents I've been testing," Mycroft said and coughed slightly. "It has a low-power RFID reader in the grip; it won't fire without the ring."

Reginald looked at the gun in his hand then swung it striking Mycroft in the back of the head and pushed him into Tumbleson, knocking both of them to the floor. He turned and rushed into the kitchen as a loud crash came from the front of the house.

—Ɵ—

Dust filled the air and pieces of brick and mortar were scattered around the door on the pavement as Sherlock turned off the engine and got out of the Range Rover. John stood by the hole it had left behind and cautiously peeked in. "Don't see anyone, but it sounds like a scuffle going on," he said to Sherlock.

"He's in there," said Anthea, "I watched him go in."

"Then let's join him," said Sherlock, stepping past the pair and into the entryway of the house.

—Ɵ—

**Author's note:** A short chapter this time. I had planned to wrap things up and have Reginald captured at about this point, but my wife is asking me to let Reggie continue to be a menace for a while longer. She would also like me to get Molly Hooper more involved and pay less attention to Anthea. Some sort of female thing, I think. Anyway, I'm considering where to go from this point. I've got several different directions that I like, but I'm interested in hearing your comments about how the story is going so far. What do you like? What doesn't work? I've submitted eleven chapters prior to this one with eight reviews, two of them from my daughter. My wife gets disappointed if she gets fewer than ten reviews per chapter on her work. I'm understandably jealous. Actually, I'm a bit depressed and begging... hint, hint.


	13. Escape

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 13**

**Escape**

As Sherlock entered the room sounds of the scuffle came from the rear of the house. He quickly observed the room as he headed in the direction of the sounds. Four upholstered Victorian style chairs and a small matching table sat in a row to the left of the entry in front of a stately bookcase filled with leather bound volumes, perfect for a formal meeting or a photo op. To the right was a more modern boardroom style table surrounded by eight leather chairs. A whiteboard and multimedia center filled the end wall. A hallway lead to several doors; presumably personal living quarters for guests. The sounds came from behind a swinging door with a small window in the back wall.

John and Anthea followed him through the door into a small kitchen then into the room beyond. A chair was bolted to the center of the wooden floor, a semiautomatic pistol lay several feet away. Mycroft was struggling with Tumbleson on the floor beside the chair, trying to keep him from getting up. The back of Mycroft's head was bloody from where Reginald had struck him with the pistol. Sherlock and John helped the two to their feet while Anthea searched the kitchen for something to attend to Mycroft's wound.

While John held Tumbleson from behind, Sherlock looked around the sparely furnished room and asked, "Where's Morris?"

Mycroft blinked as Anthea began wiping the blood from the back of his head with a damp tea towel. "You didn't see him?" Mycroft replied. "He headed out through the…" Mycroft paused. "Damn! He used the priest hole. There is an escape tunnel behind the end cabinet in the kitchen. It leads to the garage in back."

—Ɵ—

Reginald banged open the door to the garage and ran blindly down the dark alley. He wasn't sure where he was, all he knew for sure was that he needed to get away. Find somewhere to hide. Figure out what he needed to do next. He felt disoriented, confused. It must be the adrenaline. Fumbling in his pocket, he pulled out his mobile phone. Leaning against a pole, he pulled up the dialing menu and selected a number with a shaky finger.

"Hello, Mr. Morris," said a smooth voice. "It's rather late, why are you calling your emergency number?"

Reginald wiped some sweat from his brow. "It's all blown, they know all about us," he said. "I'm pretty sure they've got Tumbleson, I need help, somewhere to hide."

"They know all about you, Mr. Morris. I seriously doubt my involvement has registered on their radar. I'm afraid our association must be terminated at this time. I do want to thank you for your outstanding contribution to the organization. Please rest assured that the funds you helped collect are greatly appreciated and will be very instrumental in furthering our agenda. Goodbye, Mr. Morris, best of luck."

James Moriarity clicked the button to end the call. He slid the back off of the mobile phone and removed the battery, then dropped both on the table in front of a rack of five identical phones. All things considered, it had been a relatively successful operation. Some doubts had been cast upon the character of one of the Holmes brothers, a significant amount of working capital had been diverted to his accounts and, however insignificant she might have been to the equation, a Holmes family member had been taken out of the loop. He paused to think about the others that had been involved in the operation. Petey had driven the car used to kidnap Mycroft, but he wouldn't be a problem. Barker had managed the actual financial transfers, nothing to worry about there either. Both were seasoned veterans of several operations of this type and had proven their loyalty many times over. Morris had never known his real name and they had never met in person. Moriarity smiled and turned his thoughts to other matters.

—Ɵ—

Sherlock and Anthea held Tumbleson by the arms in the kitchen as Doctor Watson stepped in through the tunnel entrance. "Gone," he reported. "No sign of him anywhere out there, looks like he's on the run."

The door to the loo opened and Mycroft emerged, adjusting his waistcoat slightly, a relieved smile on his face.

The swinging door from the front room opened and Sargent Sally Donovan came in. Seeing Sherlock she smiled. "Hello, freak, why am I not surprised you're involved with this?" she said. "We get a domestic disturbance report and arrive to find the front of the house totally destroyed."

Sherlock nudged Tumbleson towards her. "This man is an accomplice in the murder of Penelope Masters, please place him under arrest."

Donovan found a pair of handcuffs and snapped them around Tumbleson's wrists. "Gladly," she said. "I hope there is a perfectly sound explanation to all of this."

"There is also a man named Reginald Morris on the loose who is involved with the murder as well," said Sherlock. "Your men should canvas the area, he shouldn't be too hard to find."

"All right, everyone outside so we can take your statements," she said.

—Ɵ—

Reggie disgustedly shoved the phone back in his pocket. Now what? He couldn't think. Get away. Hide. His thoughts were fuzzy and confused. He began to stagger towards the end of the alley and stumbled against a dust bin, knocking its contents on the ground. Cans, bottles, paper, moldy rotting food scattered everywhere. He slipped and fell in the mess. What was going on? Why was he so disoriented? He struggled back to his feet and noticed his mouth felt dry. The tips of his thumbs began to tingle. He squeezed his eyes shut as he finally realized what was happening. God, why now? He tugged at his tie to get some air and staggered towards the end of the alley. The lights of an all-night petrol station were just across the street.

—Ɵ—

Abul sat on a stool behind the cash register reading a new paperback by his favorite author. He enjoyed working the night shift; the pay wasn't great, but there were very few customers to deal with and it left plenty of time to sit and read.

A bell tinkled as the door opened and a man lurched drunkenly to the counter. Smelling like garbage, his tie askew, covered in filth, he grabbed a candy bar from the rack, stripped off the paper and shoved it in his mouth.

"Donut!" the man said with his mouth full. His eyes were open wide as he stared at Abdul.

Abul dropped his book, slid off the stool and stepped back from the counter.

"DONUT!" the man repeated frantically and slammed his hands on the countertop.

Abul raised his arm and nervously pointed in the general direction of the pastry section of the store.

The man turned and hesitated for a moment, trying to maintain his balance, then teetered off in that direction, opening a cooler and pulling out a bottle of orange juice on his way.

Abul grabbed the phone and dialed 999.

Reaching the pastry section, Reginald grabbed a jelly filled pie from the rack and pulled off the wrapper. He took a large bite and washed it down with orange juice. He stepped back and leaned against a cooler, then heaving a big sigh he slowly slid to a sitting position on the floor. He took another bite of the pie before he tilted over on his side and passed out.

—Ɵ—

**Author's note:** Sorry for the long delay in posting this one, a death in the immediate family and an unexpected major surgery put me out of commission for a while. I'm still recuperating slowly under the care of my loving wife but not really able to spend a lot of time in front of the computer as yet. I plan on wrapping things up in the next week or so, looking at just one more chapter unless I get hit with some sort of fantastic inspiration. Thanks to all who have tagged my story or done reviews; that's what fuels this author's creative engine.


	14. Conclusion

**Master of Murder**

**Chapter 14**

**Conclusion**

Chirp, chirp.

Putt, putt, putt, putt….

Chirp, chirp.

Reginald slowly registered the sound of a bird somewhere close by and the putt-putt of some sort of motor, almost cartoonish sounding. He was laying on his back somewhere, still groggy rousing from sleep mode, he didn't open his eyes. There was an uncomfortable stinging feeling in his left arm. He was unable to register quite what was going on yet.

Chirp, chirp.

There it was again. Bird? No, not a bird. What was it?

Putt, putt, putt…

He forced his eyes open a bit. White ceiling tiles. Bright lights. He turned his head slightly to the left. A nurse was adjusting an IV bag of clear liquid. A tube trailed down from the bag into an IV pump. Blurry spots on its touch screen were blinking.

Chirp, chirp.

It was the IV pump alarm with the pump motor providing the putt-putt sound.

The nurse glanced down at him. "Oh, you're awake! Do you know where you are?"

He lifted his head slightly trying to survey his situation. White sheets, bed rails, hospital room. He tried lifting his right arm. Clinking sound and a cold metal feeling. Handcuffs…he was handcuffed to the bed rail.

"Hospital?" he said weakly.

"That's right, do you know why?"

He dropped his head back on the pillow, still a little groggy and disoriented. "No," he answered.

"You let your blood glucose level get too low and passed out," the nurse explained. "You were a thirty-five when the medics got to you. If you hadn't eaten that jelly roll when you did you could have gone into a coma."

Exhausted, he closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

—Ɵ—

**ONE WEEK LATER:**

Molly nibbled on a piece of teriyaki chicken. Sherlock had surprisingly invited her over for dinner. Even if it was just Chinese take-away, she had jumped at the chance to be with him. John was there too, so it wasn't exactly a "date," but it was good enough for her.

Taking a sip of coffee, she asked, "So they're closing the case of your cousin's murder?"

Sherlock finished a bite of General Tso and wiped his mouth with the corner of his napkin. "Lestrade is satisfied that Reginald Morris and Leonard Tumbleson are guilty of the murder and has suspended further investigation at this time," he said.

As he dipped the end of a spring roll in soy sauce, John said, "The two are also charged with the kidnapping and assault of Mycroft plus there are numerous charges regarding the theft of government funds. There's enough evidence to put both of them away for a long time."

"Yet not every question in the affair has been answered," murmured Sherlock.

"Oh really, how so?" said Molly, taking another bite of her chicken.

"Morris and Tumbleson were merely stooges," said Sherlock. "I'm convinced that they, indeed, did murder Penelope. However there are too many loose ends for the entire incident to be limited to two persons. For example in the case of Mycroft's kidnapping, Morris had to dispatch the dummy vehicle in addition to the real one. That would leave Tumbleson to either drive the dummy vehicle or incapacitate Mycroft when he got in the back, not both. There had to be at least a third person involved."

Sherlock paused to take another bite of General Tso. "Also," he continued, "in the matter of the financial transactions, Morris submitted the requisitions and Tumbleson processed them, but the actual transfer of funds appears to have been handled by a third party with much more savvy than either of them possess. The money simply disappeared without a trace."

"But they don't know who they were dealing with," said John.

"That's correct," said Sherlock. "Tumbleson doesn't know who the driver was in the kidnapping, but has confessed to chloroforming Mycroft when he got into the car. Morris admits to talking with someone several times about setting up the requisition scam, but they never actually met and no names were used."

"So someone else was definitely involved," said Molly.

"Yes," said Sherlock. "Someone with a spider's touch, a master of murder to the final degree. There is one further piece of evidence that I haven't shared with anyone until now."

John and Molly both looked at Sherlock expectantly.

"Two days after Penelope's death I received this text," Sherlock explained as he pulled out his mobile phone. He tapped on it a few times and then turned the screen around so that they could read the text.

**SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS  
JAMES**

John and Molly looked at each other. "Moriarity," they said in unison.

"Yes," said Sherlock, "I believe that is probably correct. If so, he has undoubtedly covered his tracks in his usual efficient manner. I will have to be content with Morris and Tumbleson for now."

**THE END**

—Ɵ—

Author's Note: I suppose some of you will be angry at me for ending things at this point, my wife is. As a result of my recent health issues I find it difficult to concentrate and work on the story. After two weeks in the hospital I lost interest in continuing the story and decided to wrap things up as neatly as I could rather than make everyone wait for an extended period of time for me to develop additional chapters. I do plan to get back to writing on another story eventually, but it may be a month or two since I'm still slowly healing from surgery.


End file.
